“Why should it matter?” he said. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Her cheeks were aflame. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. More often then not he refused to reveal specifics of his own past in Greece and Rome, choosing to relate fables and stories of an impersonal nature.
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